


Beards, Booty Shorts, and Binaries

by aibidil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Activism, Aurors, Bearded Draco Malfoy, Direct action and civil disobedience, Draco Malfoy in a Skirt, Employment discrimination, Getting Together, Harry Potter in booty shorts, Hermione Granger with a beard, Humor, LGBTQ Themes, Lucius Malfoy is not amused, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Political cross-dressing, Politics, Ron Weasley in makeup, dress codes, gender bending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 17:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil
Summary: Harry was hoping for a quiet day at the office, but Hermione and Draco are waging a war on discrimination with beards and skirts.





	Beards, Booty Shorts, and Binaries

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because I was trying to come up with a premise for bearded!Draco, and apparently this is the only way I can see it happening. The fic was sitting, half-finished, in my docs, but I felt called to finish it this week because the Supreme Court in the US is currently trying to decide whether a landmark 1964 civil rights law bars employment discrimination based on sexual orientation and transgender status, which could have a direct effect on gendered workplace dress codes. Pay attention, and more power to everyone fighting the fight along with Draco and Hermione and to everyone who has ever lost their job for being LGBT+.

Harry knew something was afoot when he looked across the Auror office and saw Draco and Hermione, heads touching as they leaned together over a parchment, their eyes blazing and their lips a blur of frenzied speech.

He knew that, whatever it was, it was going to be a fucking _nightmare_ when Draco slammed his fist on the table and then Hermione nodded vigorously, throwing one of her hands into the air.

Harry nudged Ron. “What the fuck are they doing?”

Ron looked up from their paperwork, eyes scanning the room before landing on Draco and Hermione. “Bloody hell.” He leaned back in his chair. “She looks like she’s planning to relaunch SPEW.”

Hermione extracted a hair tie from her pocket and pulled back her hair, a sure sign that she meant business. 

“Should we go over there?” Ron asked, turning to Harry with wide blue eyes.

“Are you insane?” Harry peered at them wearily. “They’re going to try to rope us into helping with…” he waved a hand, “whatever they’re doing.”

Hermione and Draco had been paired as Auror partners directly out of training. Neither of them had been particularly happy about it at first, but Harry begrudgingly had to hand it to Robards—they were a perfect partnership. Harry could never be paired with either of them—they were both much too high energy. Hermione took extreme risks and would not listen to reason (Harry and Ron often reminisced about the time they tried to talk her out of making Polyjuice and she didn’t listen and ended up half-feline). And Draco was a ball of nervous energy, getting caught up on small details of cases that were completely irrelevant (most of the time; sometimes his obsessions solve cases) and refusing to do work as assigned. Together, they worked each other into frenzies, falling asleep at their desks and reading aloud from obscure Latin grimoires in the Ministry library. 

They were a bit of a nightmare.

Ron grabbed a package of Bertie Botts and poured himself a handful, tilting back in his chair to consider his girlfriend. “What would be more annoying for us, in the long run? Going over there now and trying to talk them down, or having to deal with it after they go whole hog without our input?”

Hermione pulled out an Editing Quill and stabbed the parchment with aggressive red ink while Draco jabbed his finger at different parts of the text, egging her on.

“You think it’s commas again?” Harry asked, recalling the Oxford-comma-pocalypse of 2006. 

Ron groaned. “Harry, I’m sorry, I have to intervene.”

Ron and Harry were well-matched Auror partners, too. The difference was, they spent most of their time trying to avoid extra work, and a small percentage of their time jumping into dangerous situations to stop bad guys. You couldn’t pay Harry or Ron to care about punctuation, and in fact, Robards had tried. He’d claimed it was part of their job—that their reports needed to follow the Ministry Style Guide, whatever that was.

Hermione and Draco, in contrast, had petitioned to _change _the Ministry Style Guide. Something about Oxford commas. Harry wasn’t exactly sure, as he’d never so much as cracked the MSG open, much less read any of it.

Ron stood, his desk chair rolling backward on its magical casters. “Oi, Mi!” 

Hermione turned, her hair staticking to Draco’s where their heads had been pressed together conspiratorially. 

“What are you doing?” Ron asked, approaching their desk.

Harry decided he’d better follow, even though he really did _not _want to know what they were doing. The looks on their faces were too similar to the time they made him join a charity date auction.

“Ron!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “Harry. Thank goodness. We need all the help we can get.”

Harry had been afraid of that. They were going to make him wear a badge; he was certain of it.

“With…..?” Ron asked, his face visibly bracing for the hit.

“With this retrograde tripe the Ministry is passing off as a dress code,” Draco spat. “It’s one thing if it’s an old policy, but this is _brand new_! Can you believe it?”

“We tried not to sign it,” Hermione said, “but Robards said we had no choice. All Ministry employees need to accept the new Code of Conduct.”

“But we cannot let this stand!” Draco continued, stabbing his finger into the parchment. “Look at this! ‘_Men must be clean shaven’_.”

“You are clean shaven,” Harry pointed out, but Draco waved his comment away like he would a gnat.

“Yeah, can you even grow a beard?” Ron asked.

“Irrelevant. I should be able to have one. Would a beard interfere with my ability to perform my duties?”

Harry took a moment to consider the prospect of Draco with a beard, but it was so preposterous that it tested the bounds of his imagination.

“And look here!” Hermione continued. “_Women may wear skirts or _slacks_ but may not show their knees_.”

Harry and Ron glanced at each other, uncertain. It somehow seemed like anything they could say would be the wrong thing.

Hermione cocked her hip and braced her fist on it. “_Women _may not show their knees! Honestly! What about men! What about men’s knees, I ask you!”

As the conversation went on, more and more heads turned in their direction.

“_Employees are expected to maintain a professional appearance_,” Hermione read on. “_For women, this means subtle makeup, styled hair, and modest jewelry (no rings except for wedding rings, one set of sedate earrings). For men, this means clean-shaven faces and cropped, professional hair. For all employees, only natural hair colours are permitted._”

“Can you believe,” Draco hissed, “they’re trying to _encode the gender binary_?! This is homophobic! Transphobic! Racist! Sexist!”

Hermione stood next to him, nodding enthusiastically. “I do not _abide _makeup,” she said with a scowl. “Unless I’m going out and putting on glitter, because that’s fun. But how _dare_ they tell me that I have to wear it so that I can look like their idea of what it means to be a woman!”

Someone in the office started snapping, but when Harry spun his head to see who, they’d stopped.

“Yeah, this is a shit policy,” Harry agreed. And it was. 

“You’re damn right it is, Harry,” Hermione said, her face flushed with anger. “Let’s you and me take our trousers off and have the office vote on whose knees are more distracting. Because I bet it’s yours!”

Harry’s eyes widened. This was worse than a badge.

Ron threw his hands up placatingly. “Okay, okay, let’s think about this strategically.”

Three years ago, Ron would’ve said _calm down._ He’s learned that lesson. If he’d said _calm down_, Hermione would’ve ratcheted up. She would’ve dropped trou right there. Instead, at the mention of strategy, she turned to him with eagerness.

“Okay, so probably the Ministry just wants to make sure that people dress professionally,” Harry said, “because you saw those dolts over in Magical Games and Sports with their little running shorts or whatever.”

Hermione’s finger flew into the air. “Don’t you dare try to make excuses for them, Harry Potter.” Fuck. “If that’s what it was about, why did they go out of the way to make this a gendered policy? Why didn’t they just say ‘no running shorts,’ hmmm?”

She had a point. She usually did.

“I am well aware that the Ministry, and society as a whole, are scared of queer people with non-normative gender presentation,” Draco intoned. “Merlin knows my parents did everything they could to brainwash me on that front during my repressed childhood. But it is a con! A _con, _I tell you!”

“Er, what is?” Ron asked.

“Gender!” Draco said. “Gender is a con!”

Harry’s eyes flitted to the clock. He wanted to get out of here. “Draco, we agree. People should be able to wear whatever they want. I’m just not sure what you propose doing about it.”

“And it seems worth pointing out,” Ron added, “that everyone here seems to be complying with the dress code. Is it really that bad if we’re already meeting it?”

Draco looked down at his clothes, horrified. “Oh Circe’s arse, he’s right.”

“Wrong,” Hermione declared. “I’m not wearing makeup. And my hair isn’t professionally styled. Whatever the fuck that means; it probably just means it needs to look like white woman hair.”

“I am wearing colourful socks,” Draco said triumphantly. “I’m pretty sure that was disallowed somewhere in here.”

“Well no one’s going to actually call you out on those things,” Harry said. “They just put it in the policy for some reason.”

Draco and Hermione turned toward each other, sharing an unamused look. Hermione turned back to Harry. “For _some_ reason. Yes. A total mystery.”

“You know what, though,” Draco mused, dramatically tapping the corner of his mouth with one pointy finger, “Potter just figured out the solution. The way we fight this.”

Draco seemed to enjoy the moment as everyone’s eyes settled on him, waiting for him to continue.

“The Ministry hasn’t called anyone up on a dress code infraction in recent history,” he said. “So we test it. We flout their code, we see how much we can get away with before they issue a formal infraction. And we will make our stance known, so that they need to choose whether to suffer the bad publicity of censuring their war heroes for gender crimes, or if they will concede that the dress code is oppressive and write a new one.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. She did love a protest campaign. “Brilliant. Brilliant, Draco! Yes! And what’s better—we don’t even have to break the dress code. Not at first, at least.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“What do you mean, censuring their war _heroes_?” Ron asked. “You don’t mean Harry and me, do you?”

But Hermione and Draco were already sat back down, heads together, plotting.

***

Harry woke the next morning surprised that he hadn’t had a Floo call from Hermione or an owl delivery of some kind of gender-bending outfit to wear to work. He tried not to think about Hermione and Draco’s new mission, but the truth was that Harry had more than a small crush on Draco, and it was hardest to ignore when Draco and Hermione were excited about something.

Draco had changed, and he’d changed a lot. Harry could sometimes forget that, when Draco was standing around in expensive clothes being snarky arsehole. It was an easy role to slide into: acting like they hated each other, throwing around insults. But in truth, the insults had lost all ire years ago. Now it was just the way Draco and Harry interacted, an easy sort of aggressive camaraderie. 

But when Draco was leaning forward on his desk, elbows planted, chin in his hands, hanging on Hermione’s every word, Harry couldn’t forget that he’d _changed_. This Draco was best friends with Hermione and didn’t act like Lucius Malfoy and didn’t care about blood status. This Draco learned how to magically screenprint t-shirts to support their campaign to Decriminalise Ritual Elvish Gambling on grounds of wizard colonialism. 

During Draco and Hermione’s last campaign, Harry’d had a dream where Draco was in his bed telling Harry they needed to have sex to stop global oppression.

But Harry’s secret thought that activist outrage was a good look on Draco did not mean that Harry actually wanted to _help_ them. There was so much in the world to be angry about, and Harry was tired of being angry. He really just wanted to do his job. He really just wanted to fuck around with Ron. 

He didn’t want to make waves over a dress code that was, admittedly, discriminatory, but that wasn’t actually being used to harm anyone.

Sadly, he also knew that Hermione and Draco would convince him, if they put their mind to it, and before he knew it, he’d be wearing stilettos to work.

So as he made his way to the office, he was grateful to be wearing his own, boring clothes. His Prana trousers that cost too much but looked equally at home at work or on a hike (no matter what anyone said, Harry knew Muggles made the best trousers). His battered Converse that he’d bought in black as a slight nod to workplace norms. His Wrinkle-Warded blue shirt.

He made his way through the Floo, up the lifts, and into the Auror offices before his day went south. 

Hermione was standing there with a full beard.

“Uhhhh,” Harry said.

“Good morning, Harry,” she replied, flipping through the stack of parchments in her arms.

Harry stared for a moment, assuming she would address the wooly mammoth in the room. She didn’t.

“You’ve, er,” Harry ventured, “got quite the whiskers.”

Hermione hugged the folders tight to her chest and looked up at him. Her beard was...fluffy. Black, curly. 

Hands down the most bizarre thing Harry had ever seen on her—and Harry had once seen her wear his face.

“Yes,” she said primly. “It meets the dress code. Anyway, I was wondering if you had made any progress on the PIGIE? I need it for the Rembrandt case.”

The Potions Imprimatur Grants and Injunctions Enumeration (PIGIE) was a piece of busy-work that had been assigned to Harry and Ron. They were supposed to update the list of registered potioneers and keep track of any questionable activity.

“Hermione,” Harry said, “why—how do you have a beard?”

“Potter,” Draco’s voice called from behind him, “we were looking for you. Where’s the PIGIE?”

Harry tore his eyes away from Hermione’s facial hair, thinking he would deal with Draco and the PIGIE first, Hermione’s new look second, only to be assaulted by the image of Draco in a skirt.

He was wearing one of his usual shirts and ties on the top, neatly tucked into a purple miniskirt that Harry vaguely remembered seeing on Hermione that time they went dancing at The Mirage. His legs were bare and covered with blond hair, and Harry couldn’t decide what would be more unusual—if Draco had shaved and donned pantyhose, or if he left them in their natural state. Because Harry was really not prepared to look at Draco’s bare legs—his thighs, knees, and calves on display.

On his feet were a pair of loafers, which Harry noted really did not go with the skirt.

Harry was jolted out of his stupor by Draco snapping his fingers. “My eyes are up here, you neanderthal.”

Harry met Draco’s eyes. “You’re wearing a skirt. Hermione’s skirt.”

“Yes, it’s well within the dress code,” he said, smoothing the material down with one elegant hand. “And I do think I look rather dashing in it. If only it had pockets, it might be my new favourite.”

“The dress code said no visible knees,” Harry croaked out, staring at Draco’s knees. “I specifically remember something about knees.”

“Interesting you should bring that up, Harry.” Hermione crossed her arms. “The code’s exact stipulation is that _‘women_ may wear skirts or slacks but may not show their knees’. So this skirt would be a dress code infraction on me, and likely on any non-cis person, but not on Draco here. Because he is, for all the Ministry’s intents and purposes, a man.”

“I certainly am,” Draco drawled. “Much as people might like to limit masculinity to a narrow, toxic box, and to throw insults at gay men, they cannot with any principle claim that I am not a man. And the code is very clear that _women _cannot show their knees.”

“Are you wearing pants?” Harry asked, his face screwed up in confusion.

Draco raised a quelling eyebrow. “You do realise that is definitely sexual harassment.” He turned to Hermione. “Is this what it’s like, all the time?”

“Yes,” she responded gravely. 

“Good grief, I should’ve worn a skirt years ago. The patriarchy would’ve been immediately clear, and I wouldn’t have had to do all that reading about feminism and miswitchgyny.”

Hermione nodded, as if in full agreement that all the world’s problems might be solved if every man were to experience misogyny and sexual harassment.

“And I _am_ wearing pants, Potter. Though I had to search for a pair of briefs in the back of the drawer.”

Harry really wished Ron were here. This was too much to deal with on his own. Now Harry was wondering what type of underwear Draco usually wore—boxers? It seemed true that the skirt was short enough to preclude that.

“Cicero!” Robards called, storming into the room and past them with his usual drama. “Where’s the—” He cut himself short, turned slowly on his heel, and stared. There was a long moment of silence. “What the fuck are you two wearing?!”

Hermione stood taller, pushing her shoulders back. “We’re simply adhering to the new dress code, sir.”

Draco threw an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and rubbed her beard with a brotherly fist. “Indeed we are. Is there a problem?”

“You—you—” Robard’s face turned increasingly pink. “Is this your newest pet project? Something about the dress code? You do realise that I had nothing to do with the dress code, and you’re putting me in an impossible position!”

“Sir,” Hermione said, and Harry couldn’t stop looking at the way her lips were surrounded by facial hair, “we are merely following the dress code as written. Not trying to make your life difficult.”

At this exact moment, Ron Weasley walked in, Levitating four coffees, wearing makeup.

Not a little bit of makeup, either—bright orange-red lipstick and, if Harry was right, false eyelashes and that thing they did with the dark eyeshadow—fog eye? That _traitor! _Harry would be wearing a badge by day’s end.

“That’s it!” Robards shouted. “Granger, Malfoy, Weasley, Potter—my office. Now.”

“But sir!” Harry could not believe this. “I didn’t do anything!”

As one, four incredulous faces turned to Harry. Hermione’s was as disappointed as the time she realised Lockhart didn’t know the difference between a mudlark and a bumbleflap. Draco’s face dripped with disdain, as if Harry had finally confirmed Draco’s decades-old suspicion that he was a simpleton.

“I’m sure you did, even if you didn’t realise it yet,” Robards said, then snapped his fingers. “Now!”

Hermione and Draco each picked up a folder, no doubt filled with research and notes prepared for this very meeting, and marched promptly to Robards’s office.

Harry elbowed Ron. “What the fuck? We said we were going to stay out of this. We can support their schemes without being part of them! I just want one quiet week!”

“I can’t believe _you_ tried to throw us under the Knight Bus like that, Hazza. Not cool.” A sheepish look fell over Ron’s made-up face. “And don’t give me crap. You know how..._persuasive _Hermione can be.”

“Oh sweet Merlin.” Harry clamped his hands over his ears, but then pressed on, “Did she negotiate using orgasms?”

Ron grinned apologetically. “No. We never _negotiate_ for sex, that’d be wrong. But I figured she’d be _grateful _if I volunteered, so.”

Harry rolled his eyes, letting his hands drop. “What the fuck happened to your freckles?”

Ron wrinkled a freckleless nose. “Contouring.”

Robards flicked his wand at the door behind them and crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

Hermione laid her folder on the desk and flipped it open. “The dress code does not prohibit anything we’re wearing. As you can see,” she pointed a finger at three different highlighted sections, “because the code sets different standards for men and women. Women are not required to be clean-shaven. Men are not required to wear subtle makeup or to cover their knees.”

Robards rubbed a hand over his red face. “What about Potter’s grubby trainers?”

Hermione and Draco turned to Harry, their eyes flicking to his Converse.

“I’ve worn these every day for the past two years!” Harry looked down at his trainers in disbelief. “I haven’t—”

“But that’s the exact reason we made you sign the new Code of Conduct.” Robards’s face was weary with resignation. “So that every department could be sure that all employees are on the same page.”

Draco hid a delighted grin behind his hand and crossed one bare leg over the other. “So you agree, then, sir, that Harry is the only one here who does not comply with the dress code?”

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Robards muttered, then looked up and clapped his hands. “Right. Potter, as per the Code of Conduct, you need to go home and not return until you’re wearing proper footwear. Your pay will be docked. The rest of you—” his eyes travelled warily over the other three, “as you haven’t officially broken any rules, consider this a warning. I will see you following the spirit of the Code from now on, and you can register your complaints with the dress code through the proper channels. Because this _display_ is seriously distracting to the other Aurors in the department.”

“Excuse me,” Draco drawled, a dangerous edge to his tone. “Are you suggesting that you would blame someone for having an appearance that others find distracting? Because that seems sexist, homophobic, and transphobic, and is probably a bunch of other -phobics, too.”

“Auror Malfoy.” Robards stood. “For five years, you came to work wearing appropriate clothing. The day after the Ministry instituted a new dress code, you show up wearing clothes that, it is clear, were chosen _purposely _to be noticeably inappropriate. Do not even try to suggest that this is an important part of your gender presentation, because the timing is too suspect. Do not even try to suggest that I am being discriminatory. Now get out, and Potter—you need to go straight home. You have five minutes before the Ministry’s automatic Security Charms kick in.”

They filed out, Hermione’s beard leading the way. Harry walked behind Draco and did his level best not to look at Draco’s bare legs.

“I fucking hate you all,” Harry hissed as he picked up his bag and headed for the Floo.

***

“Phase One is complete,” Hermione said as she slid into a booth at the pub and took a long sip of lager.

“There are phases?” Ron asked, rubbing self consciously at his eyes, which still looked a bit smoky even though he’d spelled off the makeup.

Draco, unfortunately, was still wearing the skirt. When Harry had suggested he change before the pub, Draco had fixed him with a challenging look and said, “I’m quite comfortable, Harry. Thanks ever so for your concern.”

“Well, we’ve made it clear that their code doesn’t achieve their own discriminatory goals.” She wrapped her hands around the glass. 

“We’ve made it clear that their tiny minds are so entrenched in the gender binary,” Draco drawled, “that they are blind to the ways they failed to encode it.”

“Harry, what are they talking about?” Ron looked exhausted.

“I cannot fucking believe you lot got me _sent home _for wearing a pair of trainers I’ve worn to work every day for years.” Harry leaned forward on his arms, and the pub table stuck unpleasantly to his skin. 

Hermione waved a hand. “Well, now you’re committed to the cause. So tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow.” Draco spread his hands. “Publicity? It seems the next logical step.”

Hermione nodded. “Quite. Should we call Luna or do we need to deal with the slug-brains at the Prophet?”

Harry closed his eyes. They wanted to get this in the papers. They wanted their beards and legs and makeup on the front page of the Prophet, blinking up at magical people from breakfast tables all over England. Harry thought they were bonkers—admirably bonkers, but bonkers all the same. He could admire their commitment, but also… “There’s no way I’m wearing a skirt in the Prophet.”

Hermione’s face crumbled into a deep, disapproving frown. “And what’s wrong with skirts, Harry? Do you think it will make you look weak?”

“No!” Harry threw a hand up. “I think that the public is already fucking obsessed with me, and if they have a clipping of me in a skirt, they’re going to wank over it and then send me really creepy messages about it!”

“Are you really so vain as all that?” Draco asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “You had finally convinced me that you didn’t have a big head—that all my schoolboy taunts had been misguided—and yet here you are, assuming that you are wank fodder?”

Ron pushed Draco out of the way. “Don’t listen to him, Harry. But it’s a moot point, because you know they wank over you no matter what you wear.”

Harry covered his face with his hands. He did know. He’d been Owled some very disturbing things over the years.

“We need to get publicity as soon as is feasible,” Draco said, quickly pivoting from the wank issue, “because the threat of public disapproval is what will stop the Ministry from taking action against us. So I think we’d better get ahold of someone at the Prophet, because their reach is much wider than Luna’s.”

“We’ll be officially breaking the code this time,” Hermione said, tapping her finger on the table. “No more loopholes.”

Harry took a long sip of his ale. “I’m not wearing a skirt.”

He was mostly resigned to it—whatever they planned for him—at this point. But he had to put his foot down about that.

***

Preparing to Apparate the next morning, Harry was exhausted. They’d stayed at the pub far too late, planning. Well, Hermione and Draco planned. Ron and Harry drank. He’d taken a Sobriety Potion before bed to avoid hangover.

He knew that he was about to face Goldie Masters, protegee of Rita Skeeter. What a load of bollocks.

He closed his eyes and turned on the spot, finding himself in an alley near the cafe they’d selected for this meeting. It was early, too early, because they still had to be at work by eight. He walked into the cafe, his eyes immediately landing on Draco and Hermione, stood in front of a table, talking animatedly to the reporter, whose quill scribbled furiously in the air over her left shoulder.

They were much subdued compared to yesterday, Harry noticed, but were definitely breaking the dress code. Hermione wore a low-cut shirt that showed a sea of cleavage and bra straps. She wore no makeup, and her hair was a wild mane. She wore a short skirt and tall boots. 

Harry wondered idly whether she’d owned any of these clothes, before.

Draco wore a pair of skintight Muggle jeans, trainers, and a slim, flannel shirt, top three buttons undone. He was wearing a fair amount of flashy jewelry that he’d probably fetched from the Manor. His blond hair, usually styled in an elegant, asymmetrical flop, had been spelled long, and hung straight and shiny down to his shoulder blades.

And he had a beard. 

A full, luxurious beard.

Harry’d always thought that Lucius’s long hair looked ridiculous—a prissy signal of his class and arrogance. But on Draco—or combined with the clothes, or combined with the beard—it didn’t look like Lucius at all. It looked like a huge _fuck you _to everyone.

And he also kind of looked like the cover of a smutty lumberjack romance novel. Except lumberjacks didn’t usually wear jewelry. It was a bit of an odd look, really.

Harry would have liked to say he was not into it. In truth, his libido liked it even more than the skirt. Well. At least as much as the skirt. Well. Maybe Harry was just into Draco, because he was pretty distracted by him even on an average Thursday.

Goldie Masters turned around, her eyes widening with eager glee when she spotted Harry. She snapped her fingers and a camera appeared in her hand. She held it up and clicked before Harry could even smile-but-unintentionally-grimace.

Harry’d convinced the others that this type of campaign was worthless if it didn’t allow each person to express their own truth. Harry’s truth wasn’t makeup or skirts or beards. 

His shirt read: DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO WEAR.

He walked past Goldie to inspect the others. “How did you do that to your hair?!”

Draco preened. “A simple Lengthening Charm for the hair, a Whiskers Draught for the beard.”

Harry reached out without thinking, his hand magnetised towards the beard, but he stopped himself when he realised how awkward that was. “Can I touch it?”

“Go ahead, go ahead,” Draco said in the tone of voice one might use when showing off an item one had made.

Harry put his hand on Draco’s cheek and rubbed it down the hair—it was soft, not the prickly feeling of stubble, but coarser than head hair. It felt—good. Harry brought his eyes to Draco’s and found them staring back at him, a pink flush high on Draco’s cheekbones.

Harry cleared his throat. “Erm. Right. Hello, Goldie.”

“Mister Potter,” she enthused, “welcome! Tell me why the public should care about the Ministry’s new dress code.”

Hermione looked at him nervously over Goldie’s shoulder. Everyone always listened to Harry more than the others, which was preposterous because, really, this wasn’t even his thing, and yet the success of it would hinge on his retention of Hermione and Draco’s outrage.

“Because the Ministry is attempting to encode and enforce a system of binary gender presentation,” Harry said, and watched Hermione breathe a sigh of relief. “And they have no legitimate reason for doing so.”

Goldie asked him another question, and Harry felt proud. He _did_ care about this, no matter how reluctant he’d been to participate. And seeing Hermione and Draco’s approving faces, and knowing that he would be making the workplace a safer environment for everyone, but especially for trans and nb folk—he couldn’t help but smile.

***

“Good morning, Harry!” Draco said with a fair amount of cheer as Harry walked into the office the following day. “Have you seen the Prophet? I’m expecting an irate owl from my father any minute, care to join me? I know you’re as eager as I am to see what he has to say.”

“The article’s out, then?” Harry asked, and Draco handed him the paper. Above the fold, a photo of the four of them—each breaking the dress code—looped below the headline, “GOLDEN TRIO TAKES ON THAT-WHICH-MUST-NOT-BE-WORN.”

Draco was in a skirt again—this one looked like it’d been Transfigured from a pair of herringbone trousers of Draco’s that Harry recalled. His hair was still long. Beard still—beardy.

Harry dropped the paper onto the desk. “What’s he going to say?”

“My father?” Draco grinned. “Who knows. He might threaten disowning, that’s always fun. He might go in another direction and lecture me on discretion. Then again, it’s always possible he’ll try to curse me through the post with some kind of magical object to turn me into a boring straight man, in hopes I’ll settle down with a witch and inseminate an heir.” He shuddered.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Would he use the word ‘inseminate’ that way? Makes you seem like cattle.”

“I am one person and, as such, cannot be _cattle. _It makes me seem like a _bull_.” His face dropped a bit, though, as he added, “But yes. It does, doesn’t it.”

Harry was overcome with a desire to comfort and reached up to awkwardly pat Draco’s arm.

“Ah well. That’s why I have a moral obligation never to tone it down, right?” Draco smiled. “Can’t let the squares win.”

There was a faint dinging noise as a bright-red envelope appeared in Draco’s inbox. 

“I can’t believe he actually sent a Howler!” Harry hissed. “Won’t that like, broadcast family drama?”

Draco frowned at it. “He must have decided that I am such a disgrace, he needs to go on record against my antics.”

Harry, amazed at Draco’s equanimity, watched as Draco took a deep breath, tucked his long hair behind his ears, and opened the letter. At his touch, it flew out of his fingers into the air. It didn’t shout—it merely magnified Lucius’s terrifying hiss by a few dozen decibels.

“_Draco. Your behaviour is a disgrace to yourself and to the Malfoy name. For thousands of years your forebears have behaved with decorum and modesty, only diverging from norms of raiment when so doing offered a chance to display our class. Your actions show how little you respect your family, your culture, and indeed, England itself. Please do not bother to contact us until such a time as you accept the responsibility of making sartorial choices befitting your class, rank, and gender. If I’d wanted to take a chance on begetting a daughter, I would not have brewed a Procope-Couteaux Potion.”_

For a long moment in the silence that followed, Draco’s face was completely blank, and Harry didn’t know what to do. Lucius Malfoy’s words, as always, were so offensive as to still—after all these years—shock Harry. He couldn’t even consider the absolutely delusional whitewashing of Malfoy family history because he was too concerned with how Draco would respond to the rest of it.

But as quickly as the numb look had crossed Draco’s face, he turned towards the watching Aurors, broke into a wide smile, and affected a dramatic bow—hand twirling and all.

The Aurors burst into hoots and applause, and Harry couldn’t help but huff a laugh. 

Everyone in the office loved Draco—and that was the result of hard work, years of building trust, proving to each of them that he had changed. They loved him not because he was a Malfoy, but because Draco was a good partner, a reliable co-worker, a fighter for everyone’s causes. Because he told fantastic stories in the lunchroom, putting on dramatic voices and exaggerating just the right parts.

Draco straightened and turned to Harry. “Well, now that’s out of the way. Do you have the updated PIGIE? Hermione and I are going to deliver it personally to the Minister.”

Of course they were. In those clothes. They didn’t shy away from confrontation when working to make change. 

Harry’s heart thumped, and he felt his cheeks heat as he said, “Yeah. I’ll grab it for you.”

***

Harry dreamed that Draco showed up at his flat in the middle of the night wearing a pair of stilettos and climbed into bed saying, “I want you to kiss me so badly, Harry. And if we kissed, it would really be sticking it to the man, wouldn’t it? You like that, don’t you?”

Harry was tired of this. He was tired of waking up feeling guilty for having dreams about someone who was supposed to be his friend. He was tired of fancying a bloke but not doing anything about it, like he was in third year or something. He was beyond tired of thinking that going for something with Draco was something he Should Not Do. 

Because why not? Who cared what the public thought? Harry knew what Draco was like now—what he’d worked so hard to become. And that was all that mattered.

And if Draco turned him down—well. If slicing someone open in a bathroom and nearly killing them didn’t ruin a friendship, asking them on a date probably wouldn’t.

Harry stormed out of bed and threw open his wardrobe. Hermione and Draco anticipated that today would be the final showdown about the dress code—the Ministry was too competent with public relations to let this go on any longer. Their plan was to break the dress code again, with the knowledge that they might find themselves in a meeting with the Minister, papped, or sent home. “Dress accordingly,” Hermione had said.

The problem with _dress accordingly _was that almost anything could break the dress code. His dirty trainers again. Skipping his morning Depilatory Charm. Not changing out of his pyjama bottoms.

But those possibilities wouldn’t help with the wider goal, which was to get a date with Draco.

Oh, holy shit. He was really going to do it. Harry’s heart sped. He was going to make a move.

Harry took a deep breath and plunged into the back of his wardrobe.

***

Harry knew, without a doubt, that Hermione was right about his knees being more distracting than hers. One summer Witch Weekly had published a photo of him at the beach with a cover story about his “distinctive” knees.

His knees were just knobby. Nothing special. Harry knew that—he wasn’t delusional. He didn't have what people would call "good legs." Except they did, because of who he was. 

Harry took a deep breath and stared at the crowd of reporters standing in front of the War Memorial Fountain. He couldn't believe that the Wizengamot had decided they were allowed in the Atrium, as it was a public space. 

Well, there was nothing for it.

Harry strode forward, a big smile plastered on his face. He was certain that he wasn't as skilled as Draco at making a fake smile look genuine, but he did his best.

A roar erupted as the reporters caught sight of Harry. They screamed his name and he blinked against dozens of flashes. 

"Harry! What does your participation in this protest mean? Has the Minister lost your support?"

"Harry—over here! Does this mean you're still gay?!"

"What designer are you wearing, Harry?!"

He lifted his hand in a wave, smile in place, and ignored them. He walked confidently towards the lifts, nodding his head at the cameras and hoping that his smile looked at all convincing.

The smile vanished from his face as he walked out of the public area and into the lifts corridor. He leaned against the side of the lift to give his heart a chance to calm down, relishing the quiet and the vaguely disdainful looks he was getting from a witch in traditional robes.

The lift dinged for Level Two. 

He wondered what Draco would be wearing today. Maybe he'd wear some kind of Muggle skirt suit. Harry thought that might be a good choice for Draco, especially combined with his strong shoulders. Harry'd always had a thing for people with strong shoulders. He suspected it was related to Quidditch.

Harry neared his desk and grinned—Ron had spelled his hair long, plaited it, and twirled the plait around the top of his head. Harry let out a wolf whistle.

Ron turned, a wide grin on his face, and his eyes dropped to Harry's legs. He thrust a finger towards Harry and shouted, "You vixen!"

Harry burst out laughing. Thank Merlin Ron was in this with him. "Nice hair."

"Nice legs. I thought you swore you would never wear those again!" Ron squinted, then whispered, “Oi, mate. Where does leg hair end and pubes begin? Because…" He trailed off, hand waving.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't shame my body hair, Ronald."

"It's just—this whole look is extremely leggy." Ron bit into an apple. "Usually when I see so much leg, they're shaved. It's just notable, is all." He paused. "Hermione is going to be so happy with you. Body hair is going to be one of her upcoming causes, I just know it."

"Ah excellent! Potter, you're here."

Shit shit shit shit, that voice was Draco’s. No one else in the office had that kind of posh drawl. Well, except for Macmillan and Smyth and Jones and Rogers—but none of them sounded like Draco.

Harry didn't know what to do, now he'd decided to make a move. How were you supposed to make a move? He'd always been complete shit at this.

"I need to talk to you about the Fobturk case because you were the last person to—" Draco fell completely silent, his eyes dropping to Harry's bottom half. "You—"

"Er, hi."

"Hi," Draco said.

Draco's hair was back to its usual length today, but he still had the beard. And he was wearing a short skirt again. This time it was a brown corduroy.

"Hi,” Harry said.

"Oh Merlin," Ron muttered. "Okay." He stood, pointing vaguely in the opposite direction. "I'm just going to—" He walked off.

"You wore the booty shorts," Draco said, his tone almost accusing. "To the office. The shorts from the parade."

"Er, yep. Thought I'd test Hermione's theory that my knees are more distracting than hers." Harry shrugged, feeling like an absolute idiot. Like an _exposed_ absolute idiot. 

"Do they still have the—" Draco started to ask, but his mouth clacked shut before he could finish his question.

"Of course." Harry grinned and spun around so Draco could see the back of his shorts.

Last July they'd all gone to the London Pride parade. Harry had tried to go in his usual clothes—a pair of jeans and a Queen t-shirt. He'd figured that the Queen t-shirt was basically bi pride merch, anyway. 

But Draco had scoffed, pushed Harry into the bathroom, and demanded that Harry pass him his jeans. So Harry had stripped to his pants and stuck his arm out to give Draco his jeans. A minute later, Draco had handed them back as cutoffs. Harry hesitated to even call them _shorts_, that was how short they were. "Draco, what the hell!"

"You can't go to Pride looking like that, Harry. You will give us all a bad name."

Harry'd never been sure who the "us" in that sentence was, but he'd worn the cutoffs. (He'd had to Transfigure his boxers into briefs.)

Hermione had then shown up with a box of magical pride paints that would take on the stripes of different pride flags when you smeared them onto something. Draco grabbed the bottle with the bi colors, covered his hands in it, snuck up behind Harry, and pressed his hands onto Harry's cutoff-clad arse.

Harry, assuming the rogue arse-grabber was Ron, shouted, "Hey!" and spun around, ready to wrestle Ron into submission, only to see Draco standing there, hands covered with bisexual paint. "…Did you just?" Harry asked, cheeks hot. It hadn't been his first choice of how Draco would first grab his arse.

Draco's face had turned bright red. An endearing bright red. "You required—thematic adornment."

It all felt more conspicuous in the office.

When Harry completed his spin, Draco's eyes snapped away from Harry's shorts. "The shorts are, of course, spectacular. I did an incredible job."

Harry should laugh. Standing here staring at Draco was going to make it more awkward. He should lighten up the mood! 

He said nothing. Draco’s eyes were so light, silvery grey in the industrial-strength Lumos. “Draco, I—”

Robards walked into the room and clapped his hands. “Attention!”

Hermione, wearing what appeared to be a burlap sack, walked in behind him. 

“The new dress code in the Code of Conduct has been revoked, and new changes to the code will be considered in committee.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief—committee meant there would be no changes for at least a year. His favourite trainers would not be forsaken.

“The department has been asked to contribute four people to sit on the committee. Granger, Malfoy”—Harry held his breath—“Rogers, Goff.” Harry sighed in relief. Rogers and Goff were two veteran Aurors who wore exclusively traditionalist wizarding clothing. “What that means is, if you’re wearing some bullshit clothes right now, get out of here, and don’t come back until you’re dressed in a minimally reasonable way. Come back dressed as if it was a few weeks ago and we’d never discussed a dress code. I’m not saying anything else, or you’ll twist my words around and make me into some kind of bigot. I’ve seen more of Potter’s arse cheeks than I ever needed to, but that doesn’t make me a bigot. Now get out of here!”

Draco’s lips curled up in a small smile. He didn’t draw attention to himself, just looked privately pleased. 

“Draco.” When their eyes met, Harry continued, “Come with me. We can go celebrate while we’re changing our clothes.”

Draco’s eyes widened.

“I didn’t mean—oh, Merlin. I just meant, come back to my place with me and we can talk for a minute before we change into, you know, trousers.”

Draco gave him a bit of a long look. “Alright.” 

Draco wrapped Hermione in a congratulatory hug punctuated with many back pats and laughs, and the three of them chatted animatedly on the walk to the Atrium. (Ron didn’t need to go home; he just _Finited _his hair.) Hermione stepped into the Floo first and was whooshed away practically mid-sentence in planning for the new committee.

After she was out of sight, Harry turned to Draco. “I’m just glad I don’t have to be on that committee.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You think Robards would put _you_ on a committee? After what happened last time, with the charity fundraiser for the animal shelter? When the International Confederation of Wizards had to get involved?”

Draco had a point.

“Well,” Harry said, gesturing vaguely at his bottom half, “I did my part.”

Draco’s eyes flitted down and then shot back up.

Harry swallowed. “Should we go?”

Draco held his hand out indicating Harry should go first.

“I can’t believe you wore those shorts to the office,” Draco said the second they were out of the Floo. “I can actually see your arse cheeks. My handprints didn’t even fit on those shorts—the bottom of my palms are missing, and you walked around with that part of the paint on your arse for the rest of the day.”

“Spent a lot of time staring at my arse that day?” Harry asked, then internally kicked himself because shouldn’t he be preening at that rather than taking the piss?

“Only because you were wagging it in my face all day, Potter.” Draco didn’t miss a beat. He never did.

“Draco, I—” Harry stopped. He didn’t know how to continue. “You look good in miniskirts.”

“You look good in booty shorts,” Draco retorted. “Doesn’t mean I want to see your arse in the office.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, hopefully they can manage to work out a dress code that doesn’t put an undue burden on anyone. But, you know, keeps people’s arse cheeks under wraps.”

“How many times can we say ‘arse cheeks’ in one conversation?” Draco asked, the side of his mouth turning up into a grin.

“I wanted to tell you—I’m sorry about that stuff your dad said.”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “Don’t be sorry about him. He’s always like that. He’ll forget by Sunday brunch.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier to hear those things.”

Draco hitched his shoulder in a shrug. “Well, I’m sorry your literal arse is going to be all over the papers, though I suppose it’s not the first time. And we appreciate your help in advocating for the cause.”

“Are you going to keep wearing skirts to work?” Harry asked with interest as he sat on the sofa to unlace his trainers.

“Do you want me to?”

Harry’s head snapped up. Draco stood in front of him, arms crossed. Was this meant to be his opening? His chance to make a move?

“Er, I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a creeper.”

Draco didn’t say anything, just raised one challenging eyebrow.

“You look good in the skirts,” Harry said, sighing with resignation. He was just going to get it out there. “But you look good in anything. I don’t care what clothes you wear. I just like _you_. I mean, I _like _you. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say something.”

Draco’s mouth curled in a slow, devious smile. “Oh really?”

Harry nodded.

“I can’t believe you wore those shorts.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “All I could think about was the fact that I _painted your arse _in them.”

Harry frowned. “Can you say something that actually addresses what I just said?”

“What do you mean, Potter?”

“I said I like you and you didn’t respond, just came back with some tangential thing and left me sitting here wondering if you like me back.” Harry kicked his shoes to the side. “Which is ridiculous, because I am not twelve.”

Draco’s face twisted into a sly grin—and what had Harry been thinking, fancying a Slytherin? This was a terrible idea. But then Draco walked forward and planted one knee to the side of Harry and straddled him, sitting back on Harry’s knees. 

Harry’s heart beat erratically. They were so close. Draco had a tiny freckle on the corner of his eye, and Harry could see straight up the skirt to Draco’s pants. Harry wasn’t even sure it counted as _up_ the skirt in this position, since he could see the pants in plain view.

“Does this answer your question?” Draco asked. 

“No,” Harry said in a challenging tone. “Not yet.”

But Draco was right there, kissing him, and Harry’s body melted into the sofa. This was crazy—it was a workday. He was meant to be at work. And instead, his bare legs in a pair of cutoff jeans were pressed against Draco’s bare legs, a corduroy skirt hiked up over his arse—and Harry reached around to tangle one hand in Draco’s hair while the other stroked Draco’s beard. Draco leaned forward, pressing their bodies yet closer together.

Draco pulled away, leaving Harry flushed and out of breath. “I’m not going to keep wearing skirts to work. It’s comfortable and whatever, but it’s not my thing. I mean, I don’t particularly like the macho aesthetic, but I can subvert it plenty without wearing skirts. Does that disappoint you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because I really shouldn’t wear them anymore. I don’t want people to think I’m like, faking it for a laugh, or for attention. That would be offensive.”

Harry attempted to force his face into a serious expression. “I’m not planning to wear these shorts again, either.”

“Oh, keep them,” Draco grinned deviously. “But not for the office.”

Maybe getting with a Slytherin was a good idea, after all. 

A hooting noise alerted them to an owl flying through the owl door Harry had installed above the window. It landed on the side table next to the novelty lamp of a gnome holding a torch. Harry reached over and retrieved the letter, which was addressed to Draco.

Draco unfolded it. His face softened as he read, and he handed it to Harry.

_Draco,_

_Thank you and thank Hermione for your advocacy with the dress code. It’s a huge win today for LGBT+ folk, and I appreciate your taking on the burden. I felt like I should do something, but I didn’t have the spoons. It means a lot to know we have people like you making sure we’re protected._

_All best._

“It’s not signed,” Harry said, looking up at Draco and grinning. 

“I think I know who it’s from. We spoke with them when it first happened, to make sure we had input from those the policy hurt most.”

Harry blinked. “You made a real difference to this person.” The owl flew out with a farewell hoot.

“Of course we did,” Draco said. “Did you think I did this just to annoy my father?”

“No.” Harry glanced down at the letter again.

“Annoying my father was a fringe benefit. Hermione and I have enough privilege to do something like this without too much retribution.”

“Ahhh, say it again,” Harry teased. “I love hearing you admit how privileged you are. Feels like you’re telling me how right I was about you, all those years ago.”

Draco ignored him, pulling the letter from Harry’s hands and dropping it to the side. He placed his hands on Harry’s thighs, rubbing them up and down for a moment. “I really like your legs.”

“They’re just normal legs,” Harry said around a hitch in his throat. “People make a big deal, but they’re just normal, weird-looking legs.”

“I really like your legs,” Draco repeated, meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry swallowed. 

“And we did tell Robards we’d take these shorts off.”

“That’s true,” Harry said, grinning. “What about your beard?”

“What do you think?” Draco asked, bringing a hand up to dramatically frame his face for inspection.

Harry shrugged. He had no opinion. “I think it’s your body.”

Draco lunged forward and pressed another heated kiss to Harry’s lips. Harry’s eyes widened and he couldn’t help but let out a moan when Draco ground down on him.

“What do you think Weasley will do?” Draco asked. “If Hermione keeps her beard?”

Harry laughed, tipping his head back. “Ron tries.”

Draco pressed his weight down again, and Harry whispered into Draco’s neck, “You have to admit, the skirt is pretty nice in this context.”

Draco hummed in agreement against Harry’s hair. “We can keep it for weekends, maybe.” 

Harry nudged Draco with his knee to urge him off so they could go into the other room, but Draco stopped him with a hand against Harry’s chest. “By the way, annoying my father is only a fringe benefit.”

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You said that already.”

“No, I mean this. You and me. It’s not to annoy him. It’s—”

Oh. Draco was finally answering, telling Harry how he felt. 

“I know,” Harry said, and Draco smiled.

Harry stood. “I can’t wait to get these shorts off. You cut them way too short.”

Draco gasped with some drama. “How dare you. They’re perfect.”

Harry peered over his shoulder to look at his arse, which had Draco’s handprints on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Draco’s skirt hiked up awkwardly on one side, and the letter on the sofa. 

“Yeah, sure,” Harry said, grabbing Draco’s wrist and tugging him toward the bedroom. “Perfect. How long do you think we can skive off work?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://aibidil.tumblr.com)!


End file.
